Darkness Falls
by Fflur Cadwgawn
Summary: John and Sherlock's private plane crashes in the American wilderness on the way to a crime convention in Chicago, USA. Injured and with only their pilot as their guide, can John and Sherlock survive? Chapter 2: "They can't walk out on their own, yet," Jen said, jutting her chin toward the Londoners. "And I don't precisely know where we are.". WIP.
1. Chapter 1

Darkness Falls

By Fflur Cadwgawn

A/N: This is something I've been playing around with for several years now. Hopefully I'll be able to update with a reasonable amount of time between updates, but I doubt it. Two full time jobs make for very little time off for me!

I don't own Sherlock.

* * *

John Watson pried his eyes open to the sound of rain drops spattering on the windshield of the plane and wind howling through tree branches outside. _Shi…what happened?_ He tried to lift his head, but the resulting wave of pain was too much. He bit back some choice words even he rarely used.

"Shhhh," a woman's voice said. Jen Huntly. "Don't move. You'll be all right."

"What happened?" John got out. His throat was parched and his voice was full of gravel.

"Bush pilots have a saying," Jen said in her thick American accent, pressing something cold on his brow. "It's not a matter of if you crash. It's a matter of when. I'm sorry I had to take you two with me." She produced a canteen of water from somewhere, and he drank gratefully.

"How bad?"

"We got lucky. We crashed in a patch of forest in New York State, below Buffalo. Looks like old growth. Lots of sugar maple. We're very far from help. I'll have to wait till dark and hope the sky clears so I can figure our location from the stars. I really hope Elsa's non-timepiece method for reckoning exact location works." Her nasal voice slurred worse with anxiety. "I'm sorry your friend won't be at the convention in Chicago."

"You sound...like Sherlock." He had to stop and catch his breath in the middle of it. "How is he? Are you okay? How did the plane fare?"

"Mr. Holmes hasn't woken up yet. I'm fine. Just a bruised knee and a gash or two on the ribs. Nothing I can't handle. The one good thing about being so far out is that we don't have to worry too much about infection."

"I'm a doctor. You always have to worry about infection."

"Not in the backwoods like this. Mountain men hardly ever got sick unless they went to the towns." Jen smiled wanly down at him, removing the cloth and wringing red-tinged water out of it, then soaking it again with water from a bottle. She mopped more blood from his face. "You forget I'm the expert now. Leave the survival stuff to me. Somehow I'll get you back to your precious London." She managed to not sneer. She'd been sneering at their city clothes and city attitudes since New York City. _Damn Sherlock and his refusal to take a public flight. _"No offense, but I doubt you two know how to find water in this place."

John opened his mouth to protest, that he had been a trained soldier in a medical unit and that finding water and shelter were some of the first things they learned in the survival skills section of basic training, and that Sherlock was a genius, meaning that sometimes he soaked up information like a sponge. Then he realized she was right and shut his mouth with a groan. "What supplies do you have?"

Jen ticked them off on her fingers. "Two basic first aid kits, CPR/AED kit, survival .22, extra ammo, a couple of survival kits in sardine cans, poisonous bite kits, snakebite kit, some allergy medications for various emergencies—you wouldn't believe the number of people with peanut allergies these days—a machete and some belt knives….." The list grew and John wondered how she had packed everything into the already small plane. "Extra clothing and wool blankets, fire starters, some cases of emergency rations, and last but not least, a couple of old World War Two gasoline containers my granddaddy filched from the Army that have water for fire emergencies." Jen smiled wryly. "Elsa's brilliant at packing things into small places."

Only an hour ago, Sherlock had accused her of living so deep in the country her lungs had rarely been affected by smog or secondhand smoke, and had said that she lived with another woman. Jen had revealed that she was asexual ("Like a certain consulting detective I know," she retorted, raising her eyebrow pointedly at Sherlock), and lived with her sister, Elsa, in a cabin deep in the New York wilderness. Jen, being a private pilot with her own plane, provided the sisters with some income. Elsa was an anthropologist, and had written about the mountain men for her master's thesis. The two of them had agreed to try living in a cabin deep in the woods so Elsa could get the necessary experience, and had stayed when the thesis was successfully argued.

John realized she hadn't answered his question about the plane. Which usually meant bad news. "What about the plane?"

Jen stared at the cloth, now a deeper red than before. "We'll have to walk out and pray we find a hiking trail."

* * *

The rain continued into the afternoon. John felt marginally better once Jen had patched up his face, but he was certain at least two ribs had been broken. The intense pain from earlier had subsided to a dull ache that still flared blindingly whenever he moved. Jen was the only one of the trio that felt well enough to set up camp.

"We can use the plane for shelter, for now, but I don't know how I'll manage trying to get the two of you out in your conditions." She bit her lower lip worriedly and absently brushed dark blond curls behind her ear, the uncertainty reminding John of Molly Hooper. John was useless with his broken ribs, recognizing that he needed to stay as still as possible for at least a few days for them to start healing properly. Jen had cleaned the gash on his forehead, wrapping it with gauze and a long bandage from the first aid kit, and he had insisted on checking her over to make sure the cuts she had sustained weren't serious. They were, but there was really no help for them until they got to hospital. When they got to hospital. If they could find a way out of the woods. _Bloody hell, I thought New York was all city. Guess I forgot that New York City doesn't encompass the whole state. Bit like foreigners assuming London is all of England, I suppose._

John's attention, meanwhile, was on Sherlock. The detective was laid out under a tarpaulin Jen had produced from one of the boxes in the back of the plane. John had done what he could with the long scrape down Sherlock's temple and cheek, directing Jen when his ribs wouldn't let him use as much upper arm strength as he wanted. Jen had found water ("Keep an eye out for mist rising from the hillsides," she had told John. "That nearly always means water, in this climate. Water is warmer than air in these conditions, so it gives off mist. Springs are bountiful in mountains like these, if you know where to look"). She said there was a spring about a hundred yards from the plane, and she had taken a small folding shovel and one of the old gasoline cans with her. John had watched as she punched holes in the sides of the can with the tip of the machete.

"If you can dig a hole in the middle of a spring, and set in a container, you can strain water into the container and have a good running well," Jen explained in response to his puzzled look. "Our cabin is in a bit of woods with loads of natural springs, so Elsa and I dug an area for a cistern, and dug a trench to the cabin that we lined with tile. Bingo. Instant artesian well and running water year-round unless there's a super deep freeze. If it freezes, we just chip away the ice and use that instead. Ice is nearly always fairly clean water this deep in."

She had also somehow managed to start a fire with soaking wet wood ("Dead branches on the tree will be drier than branches already on the ground, and if you find a dead log, work away the wet wood to get to the dry punky stuff underneath") and the survival kits. Then she got Sherlock to the fire, and had wrapped him in one of the thick wool blankets. Jen helped John to Sherlock's side before erecting a lean-to with some long branches and the tarpaulins. She had gone off with the shovel and the gasoline can. John knew, in rain this cold, it was only a matter of time before hypothermia set in even with the relative warmth of the fire and the shelter of the plane. Not for the first time, he wished that Molly, or even Lestrade, was there, and that the comfort of St. Bart's hospital or his surgery was surrounding him instead of a scratchy wool blanket and the sound of rain splattering on the tarpaulin.

Jen returned some time later, with a full can of water. John hadn't realized she'd been back to camp. "You were asleep," she said, answering his unspoken question. "I didn't see a reason to wake you." She set the water can next to the fire, glancing up sharply as Sherlock moaned.

"Take it easy," John said quietly, turning his head to look at Sherlock. "We're safe." Steel grey eyes met John's green ones.

"What….happened?" Sherlock rasped.

"The plane crashed."

"Where?" He was breathing rapidly now, nearly panting. The breaths were shallow.

"Somewhere south of Buffalo," John said. "I'm not sure exactly where." A gust of wind caught the tarpaulin, and it snapped and crackled with sudden movement before settling still. Sherlock was already asleep.

"Will he be alright?" Jen asked, sharing a worried look with John. John fumbled for his pentorch, and Jen helped him with taking another set of vitals from them both. Luckily, she had a blood pressure cuff and other necessities in her stockpile of emergency supplies, and John directed her in using them when his ribs didn't allow for the movement.

"I don't know," John sighed. "We all need to get to hospital. I don't know how long we can manage here, like this."

Jen busied herself with covering them both with another wool blanket, and another tarpaulin to keep the rain off. She finally allowed herself to wince as the movements pulled at the gashes in her side, unconsciously putting an arm protectively over them, and leaned against the side of the plane. "We'll manage. Heaven help us, we'll manage."

* * *

The rain fell throughout the night, an occasional flash of lightning making the woods brilliant as day. When John woke in the morning after sleeping fitfully, the sun was peeking through the leaves. He cautiously pushed himself up with one elbow. The pain from his ribs flared. He crashed back to the ground with a gasp; Jen Huntly appeared in his view.

"Hey, hey, hey, take it easy!" she said. "You said yourself yesterday that you need to lie still to help your ribs heal."

"I really need to use the loo."

"Loo…? Ah. Bathroom. Got it. Good thing I watched the BBC a lot at university." She helped him up and pulled his arm around her neck, wrapping her left hand around his waist. "Ready to go find a bush?" He nodded, breathing heavily through the pain. "Okay, nice and easy. That's it." With her help, John managed to lean against a large tree whose trunk looked like muscles flexing. It wasn't a proper toilet by any means, but it would shield him sufficiently. "Ironwood," Jen said, nodding toward the tree. "One of the many hardwoods we've got here. Also called musclewood because of its appearance." She cleared her throat, again reminding John of Molly. She was clearly aware that she was sounding like a textbook again. "Ah, right. I-I'll just leave you, and, um, let you do your thing. Uh…..holler when you're done."

When he finally was able to lie back down by the fire and cover himself with the felted wool blanket, he noticed Jen was reading. _Peterson Field Guide_, he read at the top of the front cover. And the title—_Edible Wild Plants_. He didn't think there would be much available in the middle of October. The wind caught the tarpaulin overhead and snapped it viciously. "Water's hot if you want something warm to drink," Jen said without looking up. Her accent, while still thickly American, was becoming more understandable to his ears. He noted the brightness of her eyes and knew she was trying to memorize the entire list of edible plants in that book, and make catalogs of which plants would be available that time of year, their growing zones, and where to find them. He recognized it as the same expression Sherlock wore while analyzing the latest crime scene. Beside her, navigation notes and star charts were strewn over the ground, the corner of a page slowly sopping up the moisture from the leaf litter.

"Tea would be lovely, if you have any."

Jen set the book down and disappeared into the plane.

Somehow she produced a packet of tea (the weak gnat's piss kind the Americans tended to favor for the tea bags—he doubted Americans had even heard of Yorkshire tea—but it was still tea), some sugar, and a tin cup. Jen was right: Elsa really was brilliant at packing things that would be useful. If John ever got to meet the famous Elsa, he was going to kiss her for insisting her sister carry so much.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A/N: I don't own Sherlock. All I own is a lifetime of experience hiking and camping in New York State wilderness.

* * *

"Have you been able to get the radio to work yet?" John asked as Jen reappeared with the tea.

She shook her head miserably. "We're too deep into the woods for anyone to hear us. Gosh, I wish your friend was well enough to walk out of his own accord! Even in the populated areas of Western New York State, there are still places where you can wander in the woods for hours and not meet another soul. It can take a _minimum_ of six hours of hard travelling to get out of places like this if you're far enough back in."

"You're joking." He was right—the tea _was _awful, but he sipped at it anyway, grateful for the warmth.

"Nope. Right now the only thing that will save us is a miracle."

* * *

The temperature dropped steadily that day. By mid-afternoon, it was raining again. But this time, it was changing quickly over to snow. Jen produced more thick wool blankets and a sewing kit from the plane and set about making ponchos for all of them. Inserting the needle and thread into the blanket, she began hemming the slit. (Privately, John thought she probably didn't need to make the ponchos because of Elsa's insistence that Jen pack so much into the plane, but Jen seemed to need things to do to keep her mind off their situation. He wasn't complaining; the ponchos would be useful for over the winter coats Jen already had produced for them.)

"How long should we wait?" Jen asked suddenly. "This morning we had that break in the weather, but the storm isn't going to let up any time soon. I don't relish the idea of spending Indian Summer out here in the middle of nowhere."

"Indian Summer?" John repeated, blankly.

"Sorry, I keep forgetting you English don't always use the same terms we do here. Indian Summer is the term given to the warmish period between the first snow and actual winter."

"How long does it last, here?"

Jen shrugged. "A few days to a few months. It depends."

John pursed his lips. "We need to wait as long as it takes for all of us to be able to walk out on our own. I don't think you could drag the two of us through these woods to civilization. And I don't want anyone left behind." He didn't care if he'd said those last words countless times in Afghanistan. This was no less as desperate a situation as what he'd endured sometimes over there.

* * *

Sherlock woke up again that evening. (The convention Sherlock had been asked to speak at was that evening. Maybe the authorities had been alerted by now that they were missing. Maybe.) The precipitation was now a full-on snow storm. John was nearly asleep when he was startled to feel his friend moving beside him.

"John?" Sherlock asked, slurring.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Remember what happened?"

"Plane crashed." Sherlock closed his grey eyes.

John pursed his lips. Sherlock was often curt, but never like this. "We're somewhere in New York State. Think you might be able to walk tomorrow?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know," he admitted, and opened his eyes. "Are you okay, John?"

"Broken ribs, but I've had worse." Sherlock tried to get up. "You should keep still," John said. "You've been unconscious since we crashed."

"I'm hungry." John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock never let bodily functions distract him. John supposed it was a result of the stress of their situation that caused his friend to admit that.

Jen disappeared into the plane, returning with a box of MREs. "Take your pick," she said, setting the box where John could look through it. "I'll go get more water."

* * *

John dozed fitfully after a less than satisfying meal of macaroni and cheese MRE. When John woke suddenly only a few hours after dinner, it was because Sherlock had jabbed him, quite purposefully, in the ribs. John knew it was on purpose—Sherlock had a hand over John's mouth and a finger to his own lips.

"I heard something," Sherlock hissed in the faintest of whispers, slurring slightly. Sherlock removed his hand from John's mouth. Jen was already alert, her eyes glittering in the light of the fire as she sighted down her survival .22 rifle into the darkness to their right. Through the dark trees, John could just barely make out the last lavender light of sunset (for such is the color of the sky before it fades to true night).

"Who are you?" Jen barked out. "What do you want?"

A man in American hunting garb—camouflage pants, hiking boots, a camouflage jacket with a brilliant orange vest and a hat in the same colour—stepped into the firelight, his hands held up to his shoulders, the palms facing them. A bow and quiver were in a pack on his back.

"Sorry, miss," he said politely. He had a strange accent, gravelly and hoarse and drawling all at once, quite unlike Jen's slurring nasal accent. "Got turned around in these woods trying to find my own camp, and saw your fire." The man took in the sight of the plane, and John and Sherlock under the tarpaulin. "If you folks are in trouble, I can help you out."

"What's your name?" Jen demanded. She still hadn't lowered the .22.

"Charlie. Charlie Johnson. Most folks 'round here call me Riff. Under different circumstances, it'd be a pleasure."

Jen gave a quick smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. She set the rifle down beside her, and crossed her arms. "They can't walk out on their own, yet," she said, jutting her chin toward the Londoners. "And I don't precisely know where we are."

"Why," Riff said, choosing the opportunity to kneel by the fire, "Lake Perfidy—Kinzua—is just about two hours from where I camped last night. Went back this afternoon for my bow about four o'clock."

"That's still three hours we have to hike," Jen protested. She winced and put a hand protectively to her ribs.

Riff replied, "It's the only option." He rubbed his hands brusquely together, blew on them, held them up to the fire. "There's no cell phone service up here and even down at Lake Perfidy there's hardly a spot that gets good reception. These mountains block it all. Nope, miss," and he shook his head, "your best bet is to hike to Eagle Marina and call for help at the gas station there." He scratched at his brown, nearly black beard, his own dark eyes picking up the light from the fire. "I never did catch your names."

"Jen," she replied. "The dark one is Sherlock, and the other one is John."

"Wonder you three are even alive to tell your tale," Riff grunted in his half-sentences. "Too easy for your like to get turned around in here. I've hiked these woods my whole life and I still don't trust compasses or GPS up in here. Once I was over by Jake's Rocks and got so turned around it was five hours before I got out."

"I know the risks," Jen snapped. "I'm a bush pilot."

"All right, all right, little lady," Riff said, smirking. "Just don't you go trusting these woods. Stranger things have happened in here than what happened to you three."

Over under the tarpaulin, John and Sherlock exchanged looks. "He's telling the truth," Sherlock whispered.

"What's wrong with them?" Riff asked suddenly, and John thought he saw Riff motion with his lips toward the tarpaulin.

"Broken ribs for me, and we've all got concussions," John said, finally speaking. There was something odd about Riff. One minute John found himself trusting the man; the next he wanted Riff as far away as possible and even that wasn't far enough.

"I can see why you can't get out on your own yet," Riff said dryly. "Well, it's too late to try anyway, tonight. We're stuck with each other whether we like it or not."

Jen was watching him with narrowed eyes—John knew she didn't trust him, either. "You can sleep over there," she said curtly, motioning with her head toward the far side of the fire (John had noticed by now that many times, Jen said what she wanted just by moving her head). "I'll put your pack in the plane."

"Agreed," Riff said, handing over the pack with his bow and quiver. John saw that the arrows were modern contraptions, meant for big game. _Deer hunting, then_, he thought, and knew immediately that Sherlock had probably gleaned as much and more within the first five minutes of seeing Riff. "I'll hike out to Eagle Marina in the morning," Riff said when Jen was settled back down by the fire, "and get help. I think daylight will make hiking out easier instead of trying to do it now. Things look different in the dark."

Despite John's misgivings, and the fact that his spidey senses were going haywire about Riff, he couldn't help but feel elated that by this time the following night there was the distinct possibility of being warm and safe, and in hospital. "Thanks," he said.

Riff grunted in return and settled down by the fire.

John watched Jen place the .22 across her lap in a not-so-subtle warning to Riff, and knew that it would be a tense, restless night for all of them.


End file.
